In which I go looking for tiles in India and re-discover my mother's love of mandalas and some poetry-letters she wrote after my grandmother died. Special thanks to Zuzana Zweibel (and Ayurveda Trails) for suggesting the hotel; Kathleen Flynn for in-person support and stories; Lykke
In which my Josie-mama thinks I am her sister and I find a letter my mother wrote to her sister after she died in my mother's arms. Buckets of appreciation to the great Gaurav Madan and lovely Lexi Spencer-Notabartolo for reading early drafts. And an extra
This essay was written in 2020, and revised in Italy at a Yoga & Writing retreat in 2021 (Thank you Jill Filipovic and On the Ground Retreats; read a recent piece of hers for Ms. on what she is reading on Gaza and Israel). It appeared in Placeletter Substack in
Optional listening while reading: New Beginning by Tracy Chapman Dear Mom, I have been trying to figure out how to tell people that the doctor at your assisted living facility referred you to hospice care — meaning that based on your weight loss and decline, you are expected to be gone
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Josie's house is a metaphorical place. It's a space that doesn't exist physically, but we are speaking across and between time. We are writing to one another, though mostly me to her. We are stitching, collaging, quilting; cutting and pasting pasts to present. Juxtaposing